Descent of the Dragons
by Neimanmarxist
Summary: This is an in-progress story based on the Dance of Dragons historical episode as detailed in George R.R. Martin's works, most especially The Princess & the Queen and Fire & Blood. Rather than a fictional history, however, this is fiction written from the POV of characters. Just as there are real divergences from history and reality, characters and events may be slightly different.
1. Chapter 1

**RICKARD I**

It was sometime past the hour of the owl when Ser Rickard Thorne approached the battlements of the tower and looked down. Beneath him was the sprawl of King's Landing, the political and religious capital of the Seven Kingdoms. From the Red Keep atop Aegon's High Hill, he could see the Sept of Baelor's dome in the west, as well as the gargantuan Dragonpit in the east. Between them was a mass of humanity crammed into an assortment of residences. Roiling flames illuminated everything from manses to huts, inns to brothels. The sum of all these small fires was still dim in comparison to the radiance of the full moon shining over Blackwater Bay, which stretched out behind him.

It was a brisk autumn evening, with a stiff chill breeze blowing in from the Blackwater Rush. On it was the stink of all the human and animal excrement a city of this sort produced, but Rickard was used to that. He was not, however, familiar with the cold. Winter was coming. It had been a long summer, one also full of peace and prosperity.

Yet all good things must someday end.

He heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Alys Fossoway before him, small and shrinking. She was, as ever, one of the most beautiful women Rickard had ever encountered in his thirty and three years. Her thick and wavy hair was a natural bright red, so assertive as to announce her whenever she entered a room. Her green eyes and voluptuous figure kept whatever eyes came her way fixed upon her. Tonight, she was wearing a fine silk dress with a blanket about her shoulders. It was wool and yellow, and the dress beneath it was a smooth burnt orange. The color emphasized her hair all the more, as well as the rows of freckles across her impish button nose. She usually had a mischievous look about her, playful rather than malicious, that excited in Rickard a feeling unknown to him since childhood. Having to appear the paragon of virtue most of his life, he had forgotten what it was to be—and there was no better word for it— "naughty." Now, however, she seemed uncharacteristically timid and unsure. She glanced over her shoulders as she drew closer to him, seeking refuge in his arms.

"Were you followed?" he asked, gently pushing her away and looking her in the eyes.

The emerald irises were moist with tears. "Last night was a mistake."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't love you. I love Harys. It's just that when I'm around you… I can't control myself." She leaned forward and placed the side of her face against his chest. He wore a suit of white-enameled plate armor with a white cloak fluttering behind him, the insignia of the elite Kingsguard, the seven knights sworn to protect the king. As a lady-in-waiting at the Red Keep, Alys had no required uniform, but her finery was typical of her class, even above average. Her dress had been custom-tailored by the finest clothiers in the city. House Fossoway was in the ascendancy, along with House Redwyne, attached to the dominant power that was House Hightower. That noble family included the current Queen, Alicent Hightower, whose father was the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower. The families of the Reach were wealthy as a rule, that region being the most bountiful and prosperous in Westeros. The region was also known for its chivalric knights and comely maidens, of which Alys was a picture-perfect example. She had been in King's Landing a fortnight, the companion of the Master of Coin's granddaughter, Lynesse Beesbury, who had come to marry some young lord. The consensus of court was that Lynesse was as dull as she was plain. Alys, however, had turned heads and set tongues wagging immediately. It was known she had married Harys Meadows the month before, but it was speculated how tethered she was to her husband when away.

Rickard had found out.

"We both wanted to," Rickard pointed out. "And no one else knows."

She laughed, her dimples all the more obvious, even if the mirth was absent from her voice. "Are you serious? This is the capital. This place is a cesspool of spies and cutthroats. Someone always knows. Whatever I was to be in life, I never wanted to bring scandal upon my house. I would have content to become so fat lady in a nice big hall..." She choked down the words and gripped Rickard tighter around his broad chest. "Gods be good, Harys will kill me! My father will disown me! My poor mother will die!"

"What do you mean? Why are you so certain?"

She looked up at him with wide eyes. "I'm with child."

The blood drained from Rickard's face. Had it been nine months since his last venture through the Reach? Alys had not been betrothed to Harys Meadows then, but she had had no shortage of suitors. Rickard had not come to court her but as part of the king's entourage. He had given the eager girl a good tumble and thought little of it, until she had reappeared in King's Landing among the Beesbury retinue. Last night, there had been something different about her, but she had not refused him, and showed much of the same keenness as before. Now, she was nothing but tears, tenderness, and remorse.

"It's mine…?" Rickard found himself asking.

"Yes," Alys snapped, looking wounded. "You were not my first, but my only one in some time. What am I going to do?" Harys is going to know that the child is not his."

Rickard was frozen. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms was expected to abide by a certain code of honor, although it was possible for them to fall into low company and even turn to banditry (as many of them did). A knight of the Kingsguard, however, would be held to a higher standard; there was an abundance of qualified and ambitious candidates who would wear the white cloak, and craved the glory that came with it. House Thorne was not even a major house, and those that were—the Lannisters, the Tyrells, and so on—would happily submit one of their sons to any future openings. Siring a child out of wedlock, especially to a noble lady married to a lord, would ruin Rickard's reputation, and make him a laughingstock of respectable society. King Viserys was tolerant and gregarious, but there were plenty of pious traditionalists who would push the monarch to remove Rickard from his place of honor. He would be a humiliated pariah.

"Rickard!" Alys shouted. She could tell he was absent from the moment.

"Hush!" He clasped a hand over her mouth. Nothing would hasten his downfall faster than to be found in hiding with his paramour. "Calm yourself. I will take care of this."

She yanked her head away. "How? How can you possibly take care of it?"

Rickard did not know, so his mouth hung agape, stupidly. Suddenly, a voice cried out, yelling his name. He spun around, and could see his fellow Kingsguard member, Ser Willis Fell, walking toward the tower from the lower battlements. This was a surprise; Ser Willis was meant to be tending to the personal security of the king as he slept. The man was not known to be frivolous with his vows. If he had come so far from Viserys' chambers, then something serious was amiss. He turned quickly back to Alys.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I'll think of something. Just go back to your chambers."

She left, rushing from the tower and back into the castle. He could tell from her expression that she was not reassured, but he doubted she would be so stupid as to tell anyone else. He walked toward Ser Willis with confidence, taking a deep breath. The older knight, with his mahogany brown hair closely cropped and flecked with grey, was typically cavalier in his demeanor, but not now. He looked grimmer and more determined than Rickard had ever seen him, even on the tournament grounds. If he had noticed Rickard speaking with Alys, nothing suggested that he thought anything of it, one way or another. Instead, he looked Rickard over and let out a long, labored sigh.

"King Viserys is dead," he said at least, in his grizzled baritone.

Rickard blinked. "Dead?"

"Yes, and I don't think he's getting better." Such levity was more representative of Willis, although usually the topic was not so somber. "The Lord Commander wants us to rouse the small council from their beds. They must discuss the proper arrangements."

Rickard scoffed. He knew without asking that Queen Alicent and her father the Hand were not concerned with planning a royal funeral or ringing the bells to announce Viserys' passing. It was the most poorly kept secret in King's Landing that the Queen and the Hand wished to place Alicent's oldest son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, on the Iron Throne. The only obstacle facing them was that King Viserys had named his daughter by his first wife, Queen Aemma of House Arryn, as his heir. Princess Rhaenyra therefore expected to succeed her father. Traditionally, across the Seven Kingdoms, the eldest trueborn son inherited all titles on the passing of the father. All things being equal, Aegon was now king. Viserys, however, had used his royal authority to specify that Rhaenyra should rule after him, and had made lords and ladies swear oaths to that effect. Granted, one could argue that the established conventions of the land should overrule the whims of a single individual, but that individual had been the king. What was the point in being king if people simply ignored your orders and forgot their vows?

"I'm on my way to fetch the Master of Ships," Willis said. "Would you be so good as to collect Lord Beesbury? The old man sleeps soundly, so be sure you knock loudly."

Waking and herding the members of the small council to Queen Alicent's quarters in Maegor's Holdfast proved simple enough. Lord Lyman Beesbury, having eighty years, was the most senior of those gathered, and his face went pale at news of Viserys' passing. Grief soon gave way to an iron resolve, and Rickard reckoned the old man entered the queen's chambers like a soldier going to war. Already present in the chambers were Queen Alicent and her father, Ser Otto, sitting at the head of a large table. Behind them stood the imposing Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole, a man whose knowledge of war was surpassed only by his ignorance of subtlety. Arriving behind Lord Beesbury was Grand Maester Orwyle, a dithering and bookish man also advanced in years, along with Lord Jasper Wylde, called "Ironrod" for his inflexible nature, the Master of Laws. Ser Willis came later, escorting the Master of Ships, Tyland Lannister, a stern and officious fellow with long straight blonde hair that cascaded down his shoulders to the middle of his back. Presumably it was meant to invoke the regal mane of the lion, the sigil of his house, but came off vain (but perhaps that was also the point). The last to come was the Master of Whispers, Larys Strong, known as "Clubfoot" because his left foot was perpetually turned inward. He dragged it as he limped inside, taking the last remaining seat at the table, directly across from the Queen and the Hand. A silence fell as the last chair scooted across the stone floor.

"You may leave us," Ser Criston said to the rest of the Kingsguard, dismissing them with hardly a thought. Rickard exchanged a knowing glance with Ser Willis and obeyed.

Of the seven under oath to defend the king, only five were in King's Landing that evening: the Lord Commander, Rickard, Ser Willis, and also Ser Arryk Cargyll and Ser Steffon Darklyn. With Ser Criston inside the queen's chambers, the four others congregated on the other side of the door. Different men, they were connected by their oaths and a shared exclusion from decision-making. After all, theirs was not to lead or govern, but to follow, and in this gap of time between sovereigns, they naturally felt excluded and directionless. They would cease to exist (in a sense) until a new monarch was proclaimed, at which point they would have a purpose again: to serve and protect.

Ser Steffon, one of the oldest and most respected Kingsguard members, let out a snort. His hair was as dark black as Rickard's, though while Rickard kept his hair long and wore a bushy beard, Steffon kept his hair short and his leathered cheeks cleanshaven. A thin scar cut across his forehead to his right eye, then resumed on the cheek to just above the chin. Ser Willis had described Steffon as "brooding." To Rickard, he always looked like he was bored, tired, or constipated. "Politics," he said quietly with a grumble.

"You have no opinion as to who should succeed His Grace?" Ser Willis asked.

"I will serve either Prince Aegon or Princess Rhaenyra to the best of my ability," replied Steffon coolly, "but it seems to be in the best interest of everyone that Rhaenyra be crowned. His Grace told us his will, and it was clear: the princess should rule after him. Oaths were sworn and vows were made. Surely swearing a vow still means something."

Willis chuckled. "Do you really think people will remember who made what promise and who swore what oath? The winners will write the history they like, and the stories and songs that come after will repeat that version, at least if the tellers and singers want to keep their tongues." He lifted a hand and shrugged. "I have nothing against the princess. It's her husband, the rogue prince, who is the problem." Willis meant Prince Daemon Targaryen, the notorious younger brother of the late Viserys, and now husband (and uncle) to Princess Rhaenyra. "Rogue" was the most common word for what Daemon was, Rickard knew, although hardly the most profane. Daemon was known as "Lord Flea Bottom" because he had spent his youth in the seediest squalor of that hive of crime and debauchery. Even so, he was still the quintessential Targaryen: bold, dashing, a rider of dragons and a wielder of a Valyrian sword. He had as many followers as he did foes, and it seemed to Rickard that no one ever had a lukewarm opinion about the man.

"And there are the rumors about the children." Ser Arryk was reclined against the wall, trying to look apart from the conversation while still part of it. He had a boyish face, with fair apple-sized cheeks and bright blue eyes. His blonde hair was thick, curly, and shaggy, and it was a struggle keeping it managed. He had always nurtured a carefree swagger, one of the few distinctions between he and his twin Erryk, who was also part of the Kingsguard. "The boys have brown hair, like Harwin Strong, her old sworn shield."

"And who is her sworn shield these days, ser?" asked Willis. "Oh yes, your brother."

"What Erryk does in his own time is his business," Arryk said with a wry smile, "although I think after six children the Princess's figure isn't quite what it used to be."

"That could be our queen you're talking about," Steffon said gruffly. There was always something of the uptight maester about him. "You could be calling the heirs to the Iron Throne bastards in the Red Keep itself." He kept his voice low, so as not to disturb the goings-on in the council meeting, but he was clearly becoming agitated.

"Calm down, calm down," Willis said, touching a hand to Steffon's breastplate. "Nothing's decided yet. There's a reason we spend our days and nights looking after them." He jabbed a thumb at the door to the queen's chambers. "They will figure this out." He looked at Rickard, then gave a little nod. "Ser Rickard, your thoughts?"

Rickard swallowed. Of the Kingsguard, only the Cargyll twins were younger than him. There had been no major wars in their lifetimes, so Willis and Steffon had made their names through years of hard adventuring, jousting tournaments, and suppressing outlaws. They each had a decade of service, Steffon a bit more, whereas Rickard had only received the white cloak two years prior. While he was fully aware of the importance of the office, he hadn't really been trying to attain it; he was good at riding and good at fighting, and since he belonged to a noble house, he had become a knight. And since winning tournaments meant plenty of gold, women, and wine, he had little reason to complain. Now, as Willis waited for his answer, he felt totally at a loss.

"No one wants war," he observed. It was an obvious statement, but no less true. King Jaehaerys the Conciliator had ushered in an age of peace when he had resolved the dispute between the Targaryens and the Faith of the Seven, who had started a rebellion when King Aenys Targaryen had wed his eldest son to his eldest daughter. That had been over eighty years before. Since then, the Seven Kingdoms had known only peasant uprisings and occasional bandit marauders. The lords and ladies of Westeros had gotten soft and rich as a result, since trade within the continent and across the narrow sea was booming. Even relations with Dorne, that arid and stubbornly independent kingdom at the very south of Westeros, were remarkably good. The smallfolk, blissfully ignorant as they were about most current events, only knew that peace was preferable to war, when it was them who tended to suffer the most. It was them who lost their sons to battles whose outcomes they had no personal stake in, or who felt most acutely the diversion of crops and gold—often at the end of a sword—to keep the wars of the nobles going.

"The Iron Throne was forged in war," Steffon pointed out. "Wars are fought for power, and this dispute is about who will rule the land and whose bloodline will sit the throne, from now until the end of time. You're a good lad, Rickard, but you're still a bit naïve."

Rickard bristled at the criticism. He was many years Steffon's junior, that was true, but he had no less proven himself than any other man who served in the Kingsguard. Whatever their difference in age, they had made their names in the same fashion, through winning countless melees and tourneys. To succeed, much less survive, in so many tests of skill was no easy task. The last man Rickard had faced in a match—Ser Olyver Mallister—had fallen badly from his horse, landing on the crown of his head. It was said he spent his current days bedridden, in an unresponsive stupor, servants needing to assist him when he emptied his bowels. Compared to such an ignoble fate, the scars and minor disfigurements worn by all the Kingsguard members seemed like mere trivialities. Unlike Ser Steffon at least, Rickard noted, he himself wore no obvious evidence of an old wound that was as visible as a facial scar. Steffon felt entitled to respect, and perhaps he was, but Rickard felt there were limits to his deference.

"I think you're a bit too hungry for war," Willis suddenly countered. "When King Jaehaerys' eldest son and heir died, and the choice was between the daughter of the heir and King Jaehaerys' second son, Prince Baelon, the king named Baelon his heir without bloodshed. When Prince Baelon died too, a Great Council convened and chose Baelon's eldest son, His Grace, King Viserys. Here we have another dispute, and again, I wager the great houses will side with the eldest son rather than the daughter, regardless of what His Grace wants… I mean, wanted." He had inched closer to Steffon, looking up at him; whereas Steffon was tall, his features angular, Willis was short and heavyset, not fat, but a squat fellow made of big bones and muscle, crammed into a suit of armor.

Before Steffon could reply, the door to the queen's chambers swung open. The Lord Commander stood in the doorway. His intense grey eyes were fiery in his rugged face. "Come in," he ordered, and without question the four knights entered the room.

What they saw shocked them. The Master of Coin, Lyman Beesbury, sat reclined against a chair, his head cocked to one side, a huge gash across his wrinkled throat. A curtain of blood ran down his neck and onto his well-made clothes. The rest of the council looked somber, perhaps a bit embarrassed, but otherwise there was no emotion apparent in any of their faces. Grand Maester Orwyle was the only who looked like he might be sick.

"Take this body away and dispose of it," Criston Cole said, pointing to the corpse. He paused, as if debating whether any more words were necessary, but at last he said: "Lord Beesbury showed himself a traitor and declared his intention to raise arms against our one and rightful king, King Aegon." He studied each of their faces as he said the name. He must have been satisfied, because he continued. "You will speak of this to no one. On the morrow we will continue to deal with any additional renegades in our midst."

Ser Criston assumed that the rest of the Kingsguard would be loyal. Perhaps he figured, Rickard guessed, that seeing the old man with his throat slashed would be ample warning to the four of them the cost of supporting Princess Rhaenyra's claim. To Rickard, however, the significance of the scene was in revealing the extent to which Aegon's faction would go to eliminate any opposition. They would go as far as to kill a highborn man, leader of a noble house and a representative on the small council, if they felt it was warranted. They would have no qualms about sending legions of smallfolk into battle. Despite Ser Willis' reasonable words uttered just moments ago, it seemed certain the realm would bleed. Rickard could not grasp what that would mean.

As the most junior knight of the Kingsguard, Rickard volunteered for the unenviable task of moving the dead man's body. He slipped his hands under Lord Beesbury's limp arms, picked him up, and carried him to the door. "Gods, he's heavy," he muttered. Wearing a suit of plate armor was hard enough, even given Rickard's considerable strength and endurance, but lifting the body of Lyman Beesbury made him understand the term "dead weight." Not only was the plump carcass heavy, but its appendages dangled wildly. One of the old man's feet failed to clear the doorway, and Rickard had to twist awkwardly to pass the threshold. Only on the other side, when the door to the queen's chambers had closed again, did Ser Willis step forward to assist him.

Steffon looked at them both, a hard look. Rickard was familiar with it but there was an energy behind it that was he unacquainted with. It felt like contempt. The older knight started to speak, grimaced, and then with a dark chuckle, forced a smile. "Please excuse me. It seems you have this well in-hand. I need some rest to be prepared for the grim work tomorrow brings." He turned and left, the torches reflecting their fire in his white-tiled armor. The sound of voices murmuring on the other side of the queen's chamber door mixed with the sound of Steffon's steps as he hurriedly vanished down the hallway.

Rickard shot Willis a troubled look. "Should we just let him leave like that?"

Willis raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to stop him?"

"He's insulted," Ser Arryk suggested. "We're knights of the Kingsguard, not servants to dispose of bodies. He likely thinks this sort of things is beneath him."

It was indeed beneath them, Rickard thought, but this was not the first time that the lofty and noble descriptions of the Kingsguard had proven more the work of poets than a reflection of reality. Over the last two or so years, he had done little but stand either in the throne room or outside the king's chambers while the Targaryens enjoyed the luxuries of their station. He would spend his day shadowing some royal body while it lived a life—laughing, loving, eating, sleeping—while his life was pure service, opening doors or guarding them. Now he could add the disposal of dead bodies to his duties. Still, he knew better to complain. His purpose as a knight was to serve, not whine like some pampered, petulant child. Gods knew there were plenty of undisciplined rabble in the Seven Kingdoms, and many of their fine lords and ladies were little better.

As he carried Lyman Beesbury to his rest, most likely in some dank cell in the Red Keep's dungeons, his mind went back to Alys and the child growing inside her. Something would have to be done about that, and somehow, he would have to figure out a way of protecting his reputation. It was unlikely that Alys wanted his baby any more than he did, but the girl might feel obligated to have it and keep it. Normally, Rickard would then decide whether to denounce the child or acknowledge it as a bastard. That could not be an option now. The child could never be allowed to enter the world.

He was decided. He would call upon the Clubfoot.


	2. Chapter 2

It was early in the morning when, as was his usual routine, Prince Aemond Targaryen visited the Red Keep's armory before his morning exercises. The rising sun was just peeking over the castle's outer walls, and the yard was grey in the pale light. He contemplated the weight of the sword in his hand, rotating his wrist in lazy circles, the blade cutting through the brisk air. He glanced briefly at his squire, a frail and copper-haired Tully lad named Rayland or Roland. Aemond always just called him "boy."

"Boy, hand me that sword over there."

The boy (and he was that, with a large sloping forehead, bulging eyes, and a receding jaw, along with the typical Tully auburn hair) scrambled in the direction of a nearby weapon rack. Of course, with such an imprecise description, he had no idea which sword Aemond had meant. This was as the prince had planned. In his mind, he snickered, but he kept a serious face. Recklessly, the boy simply guessed and grabbed a sword.

"No, not that one," Aemond said, firmly. "The other one."

The boy, red-faced, put the sword back and took another.

"No! The one with the dragon hilt."

The boy lowered his eyes. He was earnest and so eager-to-please. It was almost too easy to torment him, but Aemond did it anyway. He never was good at denying himself.

Still, he was no indulgent wastrel, like his older brother. Aegon Targaryen was a pampered, puffed-up princeling who had never applied himself to anything other than pleasing his whims. Aemond had been spoiled too, as all royal children were, but whereas Aemond had eventually pushed himself to be better, Aegon never did. He was content with mediocrity, and the sycophants around him never challenged him. By a mere happenstance of fate, however, Aegon was born before Aemond, and as eldest son he was next in line to the Iron Throne. It was arbitrary, not fair at all, but to resist such realities was like the man in the fable: so in love with the summer pleasantry, he tried to disregard the coming of winter, only to be caught unready, killed by his self-delusion.

In his youth, Aemond had tricked himself in a comparable way. He was tireless, reading classics secular and theological, studying the arts of politics and intrigue. He learned swordsmanship under the tutelage of Ser Criston Cole, considered by many to be the greatest warrior in the land, first when he was a regular member of the Kingsguard, and later when he became Lord Commander. Young Aemond had believed he would realize his ambitions through diligence. For all his work, however, he was always in Aegon's shadow, the second son, the "just-in-case" option. When he was 10, he had claimed Vhagar, the most ancient of the known dragons in the world, the dragon of Queen Visenya Targaryen, legendary older sister and wife of Aegon the Conqueror.

He had done so covertly, so that his parents would not know. But what should have been a moment of glory was marred forever. After taming Vhagar, Aemond was discovered by the three sons of Rhaenyra, his hated aunt. She was a strumpet whose shame was known even across the narrow sea, and it was whispered that she had taken her sworn shield, Ser Harwin Strong, as a lover. It was also said that her three boys by Ser Laenor Velaryon (a pillow-biter of some repute) were the bastard offspring of their dalliance.

Aemond had lost his temper and addressed the three boys as "Strongs" when they had confronted him, denying their purported royal heritage. He had also beaten two of them, Jacaerys and Joffrey, until they were crumpled on the floor, bruised and bloody. The third boy, Lucerys, had drawn a dagger and slashed Aemond's face. The wound blinded him forever in his right eye. Losing half his sight had seemed cheap for having taken ownership of the most fearsome dragon in the world, and it mitigated the crime of his questioning the parentage of his nephews. Aemond's pride, however, had never fully healed. He was still as confident as ever that Rhaenyra's brood was all bastards, unworthy of the Targaryen name, and he owed Lucerys a debt that would be repaid.

Several years ago, he had started wearing a sapphire in place of his missing eye, a priceless gem said to have come from the Summer Isles. Whatever its origin, it was a bewitching stone, capturing attention with its fey crystalline shimmer. At first, Aemond had hated his disfigurement, thinking it a humiliation and a weakness. But as he ceased to care about the recognition (or not) of others, he took a perverse pride in drawing attention to his partial blindness, and he savored the discomfort it tended to instill in those of weak constitution. They tended to drop their gaze in his presence, unable to lock eyes with him, all while he measured what they amounted to with his intense stare.

Aemond nodded as he examined the sword his squire handed him. He gave a nod. "Fetch my armor, boy," he said, and before the last word formed on his lips the Tully boy was off at a sprint. Again, Aemond kept his face dry and drab, but inside he giggled.

Even claiming Vhagar had not changed Aemond's fortune much in the end. He was still second choice to Aegon, at least among those who supported their mother, Queen Alicent. These lords and ladies were called the "greens," for the color dress Alicent had once worn to a grand tournament. Rhaenyra had worn a black dress, the color of the Targaryen crest, and so her supporters were called "blacks." It all seemed rather silly to Aemond. His mother professed that she only wanted to name Aegon the official heir for the good of the realm, but it was obviously to grow the power of her and her family, House Hightower. King Viserys pleaded for goodwill to keep the family together, but the truth was he lacked the will and the strength to deny either his daughter or his wife. Everything was a lie, poetry and piety acting as a weak veneer for greed and self-interest.

If the world did not reward industry and merit, then Aemond would no longer play by those rules. Instead, he would make his own rules, and who was to tell him he was wrong? He was a prince of the Seven Kingdoms, answerable only to his father (a dithering fool) and his mother, who would forgive almost any misdeed, especially if it helped their family's fortunes. It was not just his status that made him special either; he was part of an illustrious bloodline, one of the last scions of a culture born to rule.

There were few things lonelier to be a Targaryen, he often mused. His ancestors had been the sole survivors of an ancient empire that once spanned most of Essos. When Aegon the Conqueror united six of the Seven Kingdoms into a single realm, he had set up a dynasty that ruled over people from a completely alien society through power unparalleled. The smallfolk of Westeros were little better than beasts, but even the best of their nobility could never hope to ride a dragon, to walk through fire unharmed, to feel the blood of dragon-lords flow in their veins. With their distinctive silver-white hair and violet eyes, the Targaryens did not even share the same appearance as the people they ruled over. The closest kinship they could find was in their own family. Aemond, though, had as many friendly relatives as he did rival ones. He could only truly depend on Vhagar and himself to look out for his own welfare and aspirations. Once he had accepted these hard truths about the hard world he lived in, nothing was the same.

Before he knew it, the Tully boy had almost completed attiring him in his armor. The onyx plate shimmered in the torchlight as Aemond stood and twisted his hips, feeling his lower back pop as his body strained against the metal. He was about take up his sword when a squat, wide man in crested white armor and a white cloak approached.

"Ser Willis." Aemond named him without looking at him.

"My prince." Willis Fell brought his feet together and nodded. "Your father is dead."

_And my brother will be king_, Aemond thought. "And where is my sister?"

"Princess Rhaenyra is still on Dragonstone, your Grace."

Aemond smiled without smiling. "Excellent." Isolated on that dank, dismal rock, she would not hear of their father's passing until word reached her. No ravens would fly from the Red Keep, and anyone who knew the news would keep it to themselves, either for self-interest or self-preservation. "And where, pray tell, is my dear brother?"

Willis paused. "We're not sure."

This time, Aemond laughed openly. "Face down in some house of ill repute, no doubt. His throbbing head may feel better when he hears it'll soon be wearing a crown."

Willis only smiled politely. He never tried to ingratiate himself, and Aemond respected that. He despised the opportunists who showered him with obeisance and then expected compensation. Aemond cared not a smidge for the petty politics of the court's peripheral players. He had his mind set on the Iron Throne and the single man between him and it.

"The Queen requests your presence, your Grace."

"Of course." She waited a long day for this moment, as had they all. Events would move quickly now. Aemond turned to the Tully boy, who was lost in a daydream. "Get this off me, you imbecile," he growled tiredly. The boy stuttered some apologies and went about quickly stripping the one-eyed prince of his armor as gently and carefully as possible.

Ser Willis escorted Aemond to the Queen's chambers in silence. He fell into sentry position by the door as the prince entered. Aemond saw his mother sat beside his grandfather, the Hand of the King. They were getting on in years, but now in the early hours they seemed to show every wrinkle, every crease in their somber faces. They regarded him cautiously as he walked to stand before the table, facing them both.

"So the time has come then." His words were simple, unvarnished.

"So it has," said his grandfather, slumping into his seat. Ser Otto Hightower was a small man and the resemblances between him and Aemond were scarce. His deep brown hair was receding, leaving a prominent widow's peak that pointed to large sorrowful brown eyes. Age had not toughened his features but softened them; his groomed full beard covered a double chin. On his silk green doublet was fastened an iron brooch in the shape of a fist, a badge of his office. He regarded Aemond with suspicion, and Aemond believed he must have always had, from the time his brother and he were infants.

Queen Alicent, however, was the picture of affection and pride without humility. She was as beautiful as ever, even though age (and several children) had softened her as well. She had always been curvy and buxom, and while those same curves sagged a bit now, she wore her prosperity well. She was unashamed of her wealth or her fame. It kept him warm, made her feel alive. This was a weakness, Aemond, thought, but he never told his mother that. She had defended him when he had tamed Vhagar without permission and then leathered the Velaryon boys' hides. Her love was the unconditional kind, a blind loyalty that rested on the expectation of the same in turn. This was another weakness, but again, Aemond felt it wise to keep such information to only himself.

"What comes next?" Aemond ventured.

"Diplomacy," Ser Otto said. He pointed to a stack of large leather-bound books stacked atop the table. "The question of succession between male or female heirs has been decided before, so there are historical precedents. We know two things: Firstly, the eldest son has always been favored over any female heir. Secondly, we know which houses have tended to favor the male heir… and which ones not." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Of course, the great houses are the ones that concern us most."

"The Lady of the Vale would see her own right to rule undermined if she supported your brother, so she will probably support Rhaenyra," Aemond said. Jeyne Arryn was also her kin, related through Rhaenyra's mother, Aemma. "The Starks too are questionable, even if it would take the north a long time to fully muster its forces to truly matter."

"Yes, and we can count on Lannister support in the West," Alicent said with a sigh. "The real questions lie in the Riverlands and the Reach. We can count on cousin Ormond to protect our interests in the south." Ormund Hightower was an intelligent young man, but his capabilities of a military commander were suspect. Nevertheless, he had the resources and influence of the most powerful house in the Reach, arguably even more powerful than House Tyrell, since Lord Paramount Lyonel Tyrell was a suckling babe. If the Tyrell regent, the boy's mother, was smart, she would follow the Hightowers in supporting Aegon. If she did not, it would fall to Ormund to put them back in line.

The Riverlands was in doubt because, while Lord Grover Tully was likely to support Aegon, real power in Riverrun was in the hands of his grandson, Elmo Tully, whose ruthless pragmatism was infamous. Neutrality would be preferable to him. Still, there were other important houses in the region. One was House Strong, the lords of Harrenhal, and Larys Strong would be Aegon's master of whispers. "What about House Bracken or House Blackwood?" Aemond suggested. "It's possible they could be wooed."

"The heads of those houses fought over the hand of that tart Rhaenyra once," Alicent pointed out, her admonishment smoothed with kindness for her son.

"The boy isn't wrong," said Ser Otto, with one of his typical backhanded compliments. "Amos Bracken apparently still loathes Samwell Blackwood more than he still loves Rhaenyra. With enough gold and honeyed words, any lord or lady can be won."

"Gold and honeyed words won't win the Iron Throne," Aemond said.

Ser Otto's sad eyes widened at the words. "Have we lost it? It's in the Red Keep which, the last I checked, is in our hands." He raised his hands, gesturing to the walls around them. "We have the crown, we have King's Landing, and we have the Iron Throne."

"And Aegon has a penis," Alicent said. "Sometimes it's more apt to say a penis has him."

Ser Otto winced. "Don't be vulgar." Only family spoke about each other with such familiarity, the royal family, and them alone. The titles, the offices, they fell somehow fell away and gave way to intimacy, even if manifest in rather petty bickering.

"We won't win by diplomacy," Aemond said. "Father made his vassal swear oaths. For many houses those words won't matter, but for enough it will. Enough that this won't be settled without bloodshed. Rhaenyra and her sons, whatever their parentage, can ride dragons themselves. And let's not forget about dear old Rhaenys." Rhaenys Targaryen had been one of those female heirs passed over in succession, a queen who never was. Queen or not, she was every bit the warrior, as ferocious as the dragon she rode, the Red Queen Meleys. And she was not even the most intimidating name. "And uncle Daemon."

"A degenerate," Ser Otto said. "A charming one, but still a degenerate. Winning the Stepstones against some painted Tyroshi barbarians is different from winning the Iron Throne. Besides, it has been a long summer, and winter is coming. Now is the time to prepare reserves, not prepare for war. Great and small houses will prefer peace to war. It is in their own interest to side with the side that has the upper hand, which is us."

"For now," Aemond admitted. "But those little lords and ladies will only serve you while it serves them. They all have their own agendas, their own ambitions." He stepped toward the table and leaned over it, lowering his face closer to his grandfather's. "Aegon Targaryen won the Seven Kingdoms through fire and blood. Those are the Targaryen words for a reason. The second Aegon will have to do the same. Send out ravens, if you like. Despite my age, what is coming will only be won when you send out the dragons."

There was a pause. Ser Otto frowned, but that was his default expression.

Alicent spoke first. "Sending Vhagar would indeed send a message."

"The kind of message that will start a war," the Hand scoffed. "It will be taken as a threat, an insult, the sort that cannot be ignored." He shook his head. "Fire and blood are not a long-term solution, not if you want a lasting peace. Aegon will be seen as a tyrant, and rebellions and civil wars will eat away at his rule while we try to secure it."

Aemond had not convinced him. But it was not him he was trying to convince.

Alicent turned to face her father. "My son is not some cruel monster. Do you think Rhaenyra will be so faint of heart? She's despoiled her name and those of her children. The woman has no shame, nor does her Lord Flea Bottom. If they take us for weak, it'll encourage the other houses to desert us." Her voice became more passionate. "Send Aemond with Vhagar to Storm's End. Tell him he is obligated to swear his loyalty."

"Obligations!" Ser Otto chuckled, but there was no joy in it. "Lord Borros Baratheon is a blustering illiterate fool. If there a list of obligations as a vassal, I'm certain he's never read it. If you land a dragon on his roof, he'd see it as a direct challenge to him." He stroked the long wisps of his beard as he thought. "No, we'll have to add some sort of incentive for the Stormlands to pledge themselves to our cause, something good."

Aemond shrugged. "I'll marry one of the Baratheon daughters."

The eyebrows of Ser Otto and Queen Alicent shot up liked a loosed volley of arrows. "Truly?" asked his mother. There had been scant discussion of Aemond's going unwed these nineteen years. It was customary for members of House Targaryen to inter-marry, just as Aegon had married his sister, Helaena, and Rhaenyra had married her uncle, Damon. There was no cousin for Aemond, especially with the family divided as it was. Marrying the daughter of a great house, while failing to preserve the bloodline, was at least the second most respectable option available. Besides, a royal marriage to win the fidelity of a powerful vassal was no strange feat. For Aemond to suggest it himself was uncharacteristically selfless, however, and he realized this is what they found surprising.

"It's said that Floris Baratheon is the most beautiful maiden in the Stormlands," Aemond said, feigning interest. "Although apparently she's rather tedious."

"Like her father, conversation is not her forte." Ser Otto straightened in his chair. "Very well. You can ride Vhagar to Storm's End and present your offer to Lord Baratheon."

"Make sure it is an offer he dares not refuse," Queen Alicent said.

"But be sure not to offend him," the Hand added. "Be firm, but not boorish."

Aemond gave a soft, tender smile. "Don't worry. If neither a union of our houses nor a dragon at his gate can move him, there is little in the world that possibly could."

He would not leave immediately, as Ser Otto demanded patience. Wheels within wheels were still being set in motion. Loyalties had to be won and traitors seized, as quietly as possible. The news of the king's passing was somehow still kept secret, even as the royal corpse rotted away in its bedding of rare and precious cloth. Aegon was fetched and returned to the Red Keep, or so Aemond was told; his path did not cross with his brother in the few days before he would leave for the Stormlands. This was just as well; though they sprang from the same womb, there was little that Aegon and Aemond had in common. Aegon was stocky, with cropped hair and a wispy (rather ludicrous) mustache, while Aemond was lean with flowing hair but smooth cheeks. Even their demeanors were different. Aegon was the lazy but lethal large cat, lying in the large grass, ready to use its raw strength. Aemond was the active, cunning vulpine hunter, in the shadows, his foes overlooking and underestimating him until he was ready to strike.

Still, they were kindred, their fates interlocked. Aegon's downfall would mean Aemond's own, unless of course it was Aemond who orchestrated it. There was still time for that; the most immediate concern was stopping Rhaenyra from successfully pressing her claim. After that, there would be ample time to deal with Aegon, in a way that would be clean, if not kind. An accident on a hunting trip, an inexplicable sickness after a feast, a bizarre mishap at a grand tournament… There were myriad ways to remove Aegon from the throne prematurely, but first he had to be sat there. And that meant connecting Aegon's fortunes to Borros Baratheon, with Aemond as the bridge. That way, when Aegon was gone, the alliance between Borros and Aemond would remain strong.

On the appointed day, Aemond traveled to the Dragonpit atop the Hill of Rhaenys in King's Landing. It was a gigantic domed structure that housed the Targaryens' dragons, a marvel of engineering, and for its size and thickness, it was still a thin defense for the ordinary folk of the city. Ignorant as they were, they must have known that they lived so close to the mammoth beasts, and it was any wonder they could go about their mundane lives knowing such devastating predators nested so close by. In a way, the Dragonpit was more a symbol of Targaryen power than the colossal Red Keep, for it was, in the end, dragons that had forged the Seven Kingdoms (save Dorne) into a single entity.

It was there Vhagar waited for him. She was a beauty to behold, as horrible her aspect could be. When confronted with such evidence, it was impossible to deny that some higher intelligence had produced this monstrosity, whose sole purpose was to bring death and destruction. Balerion the Dread, the late dragon of Aegon the Conqueror had become the standard by which all future Targaryen dragons would be judged. Vhagar was considered beyond dispute to be the closest in resemblance to Balerion, at least of those dragons known and living. She could swallow a handful of men on foot, even a single man on horseback. She spat torrents of flame from her fanged maw that would bake a knight still in her armor, leaving nothing but ash encased in melted steel.

Aemond had nothing to fear, however, for the two were bonded. When he approached, he extended a gloved hand, brushing Vhagar's snout. She let out a slow metallic clicking sound, her reptile eyes narrowing and focusing on the one-eyed prince. There was no hostility in her mien, and yet there was no mistaking her deadliness, even in this, her most welcoming of environments. This was her "home," or to be more accurate, Aemond was her "home," her island of connection in an ocean of isolation. Where had the dragons come from? Who or what had brought them into the world? Had the dragon-riders of the old world tamed them, or had they been some sought of twisted creation to tame the world to the dragon-riders? These things were impossible to know, but they tugged at Aemond's imagination anyway. As he mounted Vhagar, he wondered if the dragon-riders of the Valyrian empire had felt the same thrill, the rush of excitement that accompanied every severance of dragon (and rider) from the earth. On leathery wings he ascended into the sky, lifted up higher with gusts of wind mustered by powerful flaps.


End file.
